


Simple Man

by pixymisa



Series: Courtship 'Verse [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: #coulsonlives, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixymisa/pseuds/pixymisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve gets an unexpected visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Man

Steve doesn’t trust his dreams anymore. He guesses it has something to do with heroically sacrificing his life and then waking up seventy years later to discover that the world has just moved on. He’s a fish out of water, a relic, and the world around him is a blur of lights and colors that he can’t quite grasp.

In his dreams, he’s back in his own time. The surroundings are familiar, the people, the technology, but the truth is that he was a fish out of water then. And now, there’s really only one place he belongs, and he chafes under it.

S.H.I.E.L.D.

As soon as they seem sure that he’s assimilated, they let him move. The apartment they put him in after he woke up was designed to give him a sense of belonging, to tether him to them. It’s distracting, though, and it tastes like a lie. He’s living in the 21st century, now, and though the place he chooses isn’t familiar or comfortable, or even very nice, it feels honest.

The suits let him be, and that’s enough.

Steve spends most of his time in the gym. It’s a little place, only a few blocks from his apartment, run by an old man with a craggy face and battered ears. A retired boxer, thick and heavy, a little hard of hearing from his days in the ring. They don’t talk much, not beyond the polite small talk, but Steve’s pretty certain that S.H.I.E.L.D. has done their research on him. And, Steve thinks from the way the old man watches him sometimes, that S.H.I.E.L.D. has asked him to keep an eye on Steve.

“You look lonely,” the old man says to him, as he unwraps his hands after going nine rounds with a series of sandbags. “I’m not company enough?”

Steve just smiles at him. He’s not lonely, not exactly. Just out of place.

All of the people he’s close to now, he knows them all through S.H.I.E.L.D. The apartment he rents is paid for by S.H.I.E.L.D. The money he spends on food and clothing is given to him as a stipend from S.H.I.E.L.D.

S.H.I.E.L.D. is an organization that exists in the background, through shadows and secrets and invisible threads tying it all together. Steve doesn’t mind any of that, really. He’s been a part of it since almost the very beginning. But being a part of S.H.I.E.L.D. means that he’s a part of the shadows, too. It means that he doesn’t feel like he’s connected to this world.

He does have to admit that some things help. Like Tony Stark, even though his mouth runs a mile a minute and his brain runs even faster. Even though he always has something sharp to say at his disposal. The rest of the Avengers went their separate ways after the battle with the Chitauri, but Tony stayed in New York. Or as close to it as a billionaire playboy superhero can reasonably manage. Tony’s like his father, strong and brilliant and friendly, but Tony hides it all under a veil of sharp edges.

The walk from the gym back to his apartment feels too short today. Steve’s been doing his best thinking while his body is in motion, and today seems like a brooding day. He runs up the stairs of the apartment building, taking two steps at a time, once again marveling at how easy it comes to him now.

There’s someone waiting at his door.

He’s a suit from S.H.I.E.L.D., Steve picks up on that right away. But when the suit turns his head to look at him as he comes up the hall, a jolt runs through him.

“Phil Coulson,” Steve blurts out.

“Captain Rogers,” Coulson returns with a slight smile. “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

It’s surreal, moreso than his transformation from a pale asthmatic into what he is now, than being thrust back into the world after seventy years asleep, than the recent thwarted alien invasion.

“How?” Steve asks. He feels blindsided by this, dazed and confused.

Coulson shakes his head. “Let’s go inside,” he says. “The hallway is hardly secure.”

It’s when Steve unlocks the door to let Coulson in that he notices the cane and the slight limp. Coulson’s expression doesn’t betray anything, but then again Steve’s come to expect that from the suits at S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Greatly exaggerated,” Steve repeats, as he pulls over the lone chair at his kitchen table for Coulson to use.

Coulson eases himself down, face still impassive, but Steve thinks he can see sweat beading at his temple. “Just a bit. I did go into cardiac arrest a few times. They said it was touch and go for a while, that they put me in a medically induced coma. Still, there shouldn’t be any permanent damage.”

“It’s been five weeks,” Steve tells him. “No one told us, any of us. Actually, Director Fury told us that you were dead.”

“He did tell me that he gave you one hell of a motivational speech.”

That was putting it mildly. “Do the others know yet?”

Coulson shrugs. “Stark, I think. You can’t put much past him for very long, not when he really puts his mind to it. Romanov and Barton, they’re a part of S.H.I.E.L.D., Director Fury called them this morning. Dr. Banner and our god of thunder are off the grid, so we haven’t managed to get in contact with them. And you, well, I wanted to tell you personally.”

Of course. And Steve knows why, too. “Your cards,” he says. They’re in the drawer next to the sink, tied together with a piece of cotton string. The blood’s dry and dull now, but when he closes his eyes, he can still see it when it was fresh. He pulls them out and looks at them, rubs at the stain with his thumb.

It’s strange, now, how he doesn’t want to give them up.

“I want to apologize,” he begins. Coulson opens his mouth to say something, but Steve just continues on. “When Fury told us you were dead, all I could think about was that I didn’t sign them. You were so happy to meet me, and I just blew you off. That’s not the way a hero should act.”

“In your defense,” Coulson says, “I was coming on a little strong.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Steve replies. “There _is_ no excuse. Being a hero doesn’t just mean fighting battles and saving people and looking good. It means being someone other people can look up to. You deserve better than that.”

Coulson gets to his feet, that little smile still in place. “With all due respect, Captain Rogers—”

“Steve.”

“—Steve. Yes, you’re a hero, but you’re also only human. Cut yourself a little slack. Sometimes it’s the journey that makes the man.” He reaches out and takes Steve’s hand, the one holding the cards, but neither one of them lets go. All of a sudden, Steve realizes how how little space there is between them and just how much he’s missed being this close to another human being. “I’d still like you to sign them. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Yes,” Steve says. “Of course.” But he’s only vaguely aware of what he’s saying. He registers the warmth of Coulson’s fingers on his own, the gentle tug forward, and the slow tip of Coulson’s mouth to his own.

The world is moving too fast for him again. It lasts just a moment, and then Coulson is pulling away. Steve can count the number of times he’s been kissed on one hand, and this is both the shortest and the strangest of them all.

“Now it’s my turn to apologize,” Coulson tells him.

It takes Steve too long to figure out what he’s talking about. “The kiss? That was—”

Coulson cuts him off. “Inappropriate, I know. I just... I always wanted to do that.”

Steve’s never been very good with words, not when it comes to this sort of thing. And the fact that Agent Coulson is a man makes things all the more muddled in his head. This world is different than the one he’s used to, but the people in it are the same. He has two choices, either back down or try to catch up, and he’s never been good at backing down.

“Agent Coulson,” he begins.

“Phil, or Phillip.”

Steve nods, a little dumbly. “Phillip,” he repeats. “You don’t have to apologize.” He sort of runs out of words there, and then he does the only thing he can think to do.

He kisses him back.

Phillip Coulson’s mouth parts under his own, wet and a little rough, stubble prickling at Steve’s lips. They’re not exactly careful about it, either. But Steve’s spent too much time being too careful or making the wrong choices when it comes to things like this, and he doesn’t want to second-guess himself. Not now, not when it feels this good.

A little belatedly, Steve remembers Phillip’s limp and the cane and his injury. It has to hurt him to stand, even more to lean up into Steve’s kisses. If Phillip were a woman, Steve would simply scoop him up into his arms, but he’s not, and Steve isn’t sure enough of how this works to try it. There isn’t enough room in the apartment for a couch or somewhere else to sit together, so he braces his hands on Phillip’s shoulders and pulls back.

“Come here,” Steve says, his heart pounding, and leads Phillip to his bed.

He’s never done anything like this before, so he takes it slow. Helps ease Phillip out of his suit jacket, as he loosens his tie and tosses it aside. Pulls him down, ever so gently, onto the bed with him. Fits their mouths together again, slides his tongue between them.

Phillip’s so warm, so solid in his arms. They tumble backward onto the mattress together, and in one smooth motion, Phillip slides a leg over Steve’s and straddles him. Steve can feel the hot line of him through their clothes, and for a clear instant, Steve knows exactly what he wants.

This.

He reaches out and tugs at the edge of Phillip’s shirt, rucks it up so he can feel the skin underneath. His fingers catch the edge of a dimple, partway up Phillip’s back, and from the hitch in his breathing, Steve knows what it is. He brings his hands forward, unbuttons Phillip’s shirt and pulls it open. There’s a scar there, too, below his heart, but not as big as the one on his back.

Phillip’s kisses swallow anything Steve might say, though. His hands tug at Steve’s shirt, his sweatpants, until his fingers curl against Steve’s naked skin. And then the words are gone, questions and answers unnecessary. 

They take their time getting the rest of their clothes off, peeling away layer after layer until nothing is left between them. Until their cocks are pressed flush against each other, until all Steve can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and creak of bedsprings as Phillip rocks his hips into Steve’s. Until his fingers clench involuntarily on Phillip’s shoulders, until he’s spilling over in hot, white streaks. Until Phillip presses his eyes shut and joins him.

They lie there for a while, panting and sweaty in each other’s arms. Steve’s so warm, so content like this, that he lets his eyes fall shut and just marvels at it all.

When he opens them again, he’s alone. His sleep was thankfully dreamless and content in a way he hasn’t felt before, but Phillip Coulson is gone. When he pads over to the sink to clean up, he sees the cards sitting out on the kitchen table. Next to them is a note.

_Steve,_

_Sorry I had to leave so early. I’ll call._

_—Phillip_

Even back from the dead, the work of an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. is never finished.

Steve grabs a pen and sits down. He has cards to sign.


End file.
